Page 28 of Her Manticore Master
Without hesitation, she grasps the hem of her expensive dress and tears. Emerald silk parts with a sound like sighing, revealing a strip of clean fabric.
"That gown probably cost more than most people earn in a year," I observe.
"It's just clothing." She tears another strip, then another. "And it's not like I chose it."
The casual dismissal of such luxury surprises me. But then, what's silk worth in a stone cage?
She approaches with the makeshift bandages, moving slowly as if approaching a wounded animal. "This will hurt."
"Everything hurts."
"How philosophical." But her touch is surprisingly gentle as she presses fabric against the worst wound. "There. Try not to bleed through it immediately."
"Your bedside manner needs work."
"I'm not a healer. I'm a prisoner playing nursemaid to an ungrateful brute."
Despite the words, her fingers are careful as they wrap silk around my ribs. Professional, efficient, but without the clinical coldness I expected.
"Why?" I ask quietly.
"Why what?"
"Why help me?"
She pauses in her work, meeting my eyes for the first time since entering the cell. "Because someone should."
The simple honesty of it catches me off guard. After everything—the cruel words, the mutual loathing, the impossible situation—she still tends my wounds with gentle hands.
"Soft," I murmur, but my voice lacks its usual edge.
"Practical," she corrects sharply. "Dead cellmates smell terrible."
The comeback is so perfectly her—sharp-tongued and defensive—that laughter escapes before I can stop it. Rich, genuine laughter that echoes off stone walls.
She stares at me in shock. "Did you just...?"
"Apparently."
"I didn't know you could laugh."
"Neither did I."
And for just a moment, in this hellish cell with blood on my skin and silk binding my wounds, something almost like companionship flickers between us.
12
CORRINA
Days blur together in a predictable rhythm of violence and survival. Dawn brings guards to drag us from our shared cell—Ronan to prepare for whatever fresh hell awaits in the arena, me to Valdris's private dining chamber where I'm expected to smile and make pleasant conversation over breakfast I can barely stomach.
"You're looking pale, my dear," Valdris observes as servants place delicate pastries before us. "Not sleeping well?"
"The accommodations are... rustic."
His pale eyes glitter with amusement. "I'm sure. Tell me, how is our manticore adapting to his new living arrangements?"
The question carries dangerous undertones. I select my words carefully, aware that every syllable might determine Ronan's fate.
